My Boyfriend, Dean
by Ho-sama
Summary: Some of the finer things about Dean explained from Castiel's affectionate point of view. Dean/Castiel. [One shot]


**Title:** My Boyfriend, Dean  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel  
**Spoilers:** None, really.  
**Warnings:** Language, sexual content, character death, violence  
**Summary:** Some of the finer things about Dean explained from Castiel's affectionate point of view. One-shot.  
**A/N: **I just thought of something silly and sweet, and it became this. I do _totally _think there's something ridiculous about Cas saying, "My boyfriend, Dean." Haha, but it stuck with me for some reason. No need to tell me it's dumb. Trust me, I know.

* * *

My boyfriend, Dean, doesn't know when my birthday is. I was born before months and calendars were devised. I can only tell him I was born on a Thursday. He doesn't find this answer to be satisfying and will muse alone about the nature of my birth. I'm not sure why it is so important to him. His birthday and Sam's roll by each year and I celebrate with them. Birthdays are not for angels, I tell him. Angels don't receive gifts and they don't rejoice at the passing of each year. I am used to living without them. Whenever he is not satisfied with an answer, Dean invents his own solution.

"Happy birthday, Cas," he said to me one Thursday. He bought me a cake and stuck a handful of candles on it. The warm, orange glow lit up his handsome face, but nothing could be as bright as his smile or as luminous as his eyes. I didn't know where to begin. I didn't know how to tell him that it didn't matter to me whether or not I received presents and cake on an annual basis.

"It's not my birthday," I said to him simply.

"I know, but a year ago, today, was the first day we kissed," Dean explained. He was holding the weighty dessert and struggling to express himself. "And, well, I noticed that this time it fell on a Thursday. We can just say today is your birthday."

For my invented birthday, I got some cake and I got another kiss. Dean's lips were speckled white with a sweetness that I tasted for days.

* * *

My boyfriend, Dean, won't buy me a wedding ring. He doesn't have any money and he doesn't know what size of a ring would fit my finger. I don't think he even knows what ring size _he_ wears. Rings are excessive, I tell him. I don't need mementos and I don't care for ceremonies. Marriage is another invention not intended for angels.

He says he doesn't like weddings. He's only crashed a few for cases and to drink some free booze. The only wedding he would care to go to is Sam's, but Dean swears he will never get married himself. Even if it was legal for us to get married, Dean wouldn't want to marry me because our relationship 'doesn't need to be defined.' Yet, I catch him sometimes, looking at the finger on my left hand. Sometimes he kisses just over my knuckle with his eyes closed as if he's having a particularly good fantasy.

Dean curls up into me every night we are able to be together. He stays awake and thinks of us, just like I stay awake thinking of him. He places his lips over my hair and sighs as he intertwines his fingers with mine. "Hey, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Does God know people are going around sayin' he hates fags?" Dean asks.

The question is bizarre and I think Dean knows the answer, but I respond to him anyway. "God sees everything. He knows everything. He's omnipresent and omnipotent."

"Well, if he's so damn omnipotent, why doesn't he do anything about it?" Dean growls. It's no secret that he doesn't hold God in very high regard. "You should tell him to do something about that."

"Why me?" I groan back.

"Well, he's your daddy, right?" Dean says.

There is a definite reason Dean has an interest in this subject, so I ask him about it. "Why does it matter to you?"

He looks bewildered and then casts his eyes away, "No reason… I'm just sayin'. It's not right."

* * *

My boyfriend, Dean, thinks a meal is 'fancy' if there's a candle on the table. We regularly dine on hamburgers, which are both of our favorites. Dean doesn't often cook, but when he does, he cooks with care and serves me first. He watches with interest as I eat and flushes with pleasure when I tell him his food is good. If he ever bought a house, I think he would be great in the kitchen, but I never tell him that because I know he never will get a house.

Instead, we try something new from every state. Dean promises me he'll take me to eat the world's greatest burger, pizza, pie, doughnut, and falafel. When I ask him how all of these amazing things ended up being located in the United States, he laughs and gives me a pat on the shoulder.

"Trust me," He says. "You'll love it."

On a day of no real import, he dresses up in his suit, looking rather handsome, so I assume we are headed out on a case. He never hands me my forged FBI badge, which should have been a sign, but I only realize something unusual is happening when he pulls into an expensive restaurant.

"What's this?" I say.

"I just thought maybe we could try something different," He shrugs. "You're hungry, right?"

We go inside and are settled into a cozy booth. A candle blazes on the table and he gazes up at me with affectionate jade eyes. I'm not sure why he's so giddy. We eat together all the time. This shouldn't be any different from the time we tried a hotdog sold out of a cart on the street, but it is. I can hear delicate glass clinking at other tables and I can smell the flowers on the table. They're real and fresh.

He orders a bottle of wine that he can't afford and I smile at him because there aren't words for how precious he is. "Tonight, babe, we dine like kings," He declares and raises his glass to me. "Get whatever you want. It's on me."

"You mean it's on your fraudulent credit cards."

"Cas, don't spoil the moment."

* * *

My boyfriend, Dean, beheads monsters for me. He is not afraid to become soaked in the blood of my enemies. In fact, I think he enjoys it. I don't have to be told this is an unusual thing for couples. But then, most couples never find themselves in the position of having to kill for each other. It's a constant thing with us.

The total number of heads that have rolled off their bodies because of me has climbed up to around thirteen. That may sound like a lot, but it's nothing compared to the number of dead monsters that were killed by Dean in other ways. Dean slashes through anything that threatens me, whether I want to be saved or not. The fury that fills his eyes is a fearsome sight to behold. In the instant I catch him full of rage on my behalf I wonder what I have done to deserve such loyalty and passion.

It's not supposed to be this way. I am supposed to be the guardian angel. I am the one that should be risking my life to watch over him. As often as I can, I have sacrificed myself for him, because my life is lived only for him. Dean is the human that gave me purpose. But I know that my absence is enough to send him on a murderous rampage.

"Where's the angel?" He might say. Dean doesn't have to specify which angel he means. I'm the only one he cares about. To him, I might be the only angel that exists.

When everything around us is dead and we find ourselves in relative safety, he wraps me in his arms without saying a word. In comparison to Dean, I am relatively immortal, but he is still so afraid of losing me. The blood on his body stains my coat. Dean is used to watching red swirl down the drain as he cleans his hands. He can never get them completely clean no matter how hard he tries.

* * *

My boyfriend, Dean, doesn't let me sleep. He takes great pleasure in littering the floor with every inch of fabric that usually covers my body. His mouth adores my skin generously, leaving me breathless and wanting more. He fills my nights with a dizzying mixture of love and sex that I have never known before meeting Dean.

I don't want to sleep when he invites me to his bed. This man that took my virginity with enthusiasm and care never tires of me and I never tire of him. I will only ever allow him to touch me. I have heard him say that I am beautiful and perfect. I catalog those words in my mind as things to keep me happy when Dean is not around. Sometimes he stays up late into the night to talk to me until he falls asleep mid sentence.

When his breathing calms and becomes steady, I take too much time worshipping him with my eyes. He doesn't have to say anything to capture my attention. I'm mesmerized by the freckles on his face, the curve of his lips, and the way the dim light settles on his eyelashes. I speculate about what he must be dreaming.

Dean doesn't let me sleep when we are together and he doesn't let me sleep when we are apart. When I am on my own, I think of Dean so often I'm not sure if anything else exists. I worry about him and I remember everything about him that I love. I think about us and how unusual it is that we've managed to stay so close for so long.

I press my lips to his forehead when he is resting. I move my mouth over the bridge of his nose, his cheek, his jaw, and his lips. If I am very gentle, I think, maybe he won't notice or complain. He stirs and grumbles, "Cas, I'm tired. You gotta let me sleep."

I think maybe our problem is mutual.

* * *

My boyfriend, Dean, is dead. He suffered immensely, as he always does, and there wasn't a thing I could have done to stop it. I didn't learn about his death until it was too late to say goodbye. Sam was trembling in tears over what was left of Dean. He begged me to pull Dean out of wherever he had gone like I had done before. I thought, Dean always dies, but he always finds a way to come back. This time was different. There was no special trick or spell or deal to make. I couldn't bring him back because I didn't know where he had gone.

Dean had many lives, but he never made it past thirty-five. For the first time in my existence, I cried. I was a broken bag of bones with no right to be on Earth because I had failed Dean. I prayed because I had become a worthless son that only prays when I am in need of something. I needed Dean, and nothing else.

I went looking for Dean and was determined to find him, with or without God's help. He has to be somewhere, I thought. There could not be an end to Dean. I thought about dying, but I didn't have to die to go to Heaven. I was let in, despite being the selfish, indulgent, ruthless, pitiful excuse of an angel that I am. I was mad with grief and I demanded to see Dean. Most of the angels didn't care much for my plight, but they told me if I looked hard enough, I would find him.

I went on a flight, searching every crack of Heaven for Dean. If he wasn't here, I would search Hell next. As I flew over a new patch of Heaven, my eyes caught my name spelled out in motor oil.

_CASTIEL_.

I dotted the 'I' with the soles of my shoes and saw a figure reclining in a pool lounge chair above the 'L' of my name. He was sitting under a wide, striped orange umbrella and became startled when I approached him. A glass of beer crashed loudly on the pavement, but instantly reanimated itself on the small white table by the chair.

"Well, it's about fucking time!" Dean complained when he saw me. He stood up and took off his sunglasses to get a better look at me. Dean looked exactly like he had the first time we met, young and full of attitude. "Unbelievable, this place. I told God, 'Yo, this isn't Heaven if Cas isn't here.' I was about to ask for a refund."

"Dean, you made it here?" I said. I felt stupid. I didn't know what I was asking or why because I was just so happy to see him again.

"I know, right? I'm just as surprised as you are," Dean grinned. "Heaven? Again? I have no idea what I'm doing here."

Unlike Dean, I knew exactly why I was there. I pulled him into my arms and crushed him into my body. I didn't let go and I honestly didn't think I could.


End file.
